Violent delights, I am told, have violent ends. That’s all right though. We live for the sentiment, not the prize. The sensation, not the fulmination. We live for the threshold feeling*. Which is to say, we like the feeling of the plane taking off better than the feeling of it being in the air. Among the words that teem like fire ants in the present world, we’re a breath of fresh air. We can be defended in books, when literature students prefer the foolhardy but passionate Michal Henchard over the smart, savvy but robotic Donald Farfrae. In real life, however, we are more likely to crash and burn. Because we are embodiments of base emotions, unchecked sentiments. Only romantic in books I assure you. We can burn a hole through you if you let us out.
But we stick to our guns, I’ll tell you that. Out of reach, distorted, clueless with too much fire under our skin to be rational, even to the extent that’s good for us, and good for others. But we stick to our guns. We feel there is something to be explored in the dark crevices of the human, in that full, unhindered power of him. We like living those tiny windows in which we are something else, something greater than what our own skin can contain.
Violent delights, I am sure, have violent ends. But it’s better I think, than using outside entities to release your inside self. I like it better, that we can find that fulmination of...us...inside our own selves. That we can find the universe in our own selves, and can travel inward to learn everything that lies outside walls we can’t yet cross.
*This phrase, the threshold feeling, is courtesy of Ms. Ayesha Barque and, admittedly, Sujata Bhatt.
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